Property of Samedi Kest Arenzehl
by Old Tyrant Charles
Summary: A journal kept by a Redguard facing his early thirties in the rugged landscape of Skyrim. Live here long enough in his age, and one way or another you may be forced into Skyrim's raging civil war. Samedi has chosen the color red. Warning: Drug use, plenty of violence, probably more gore and sexual content later on.
1. Entry One

**Property of Samedi Kest Arenzehl**

* * *

Tirdas, 30th of Heartfire

Several hours before dawn

Somewhere west of the Pale Imperial Encampment

The blizzard was in full rage at this time. Men do not live long in this age, but I have survived at least 30 summers, and braved Skyrim for nearly six. Six years ago, though I would not have survived here, in the heart of a region aptly titled the Pale, in this torrent of ice and snow. But little more than a half a decade has strengthened both my wit and my skill, with all the trials I have faced in it.

I account that over the past two months I have entered into the Legion, initially only with my housecarl Lydia at my side, but since then I have been assigned two legionnaires, Belrand and Faendal. They all hold the rank of auxiliary for performing under my leadership (I have been officially raised to the rank of quaestor), but Lydia is my second, and holds command over the two men. The dozen or so skirmishes those young souls saw in my employ before the Battle of Whiterun did not prepare them. Ulfric had sent his Stormcloaks in response to the axe I myself carried to him on behalf of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater in force, the plains outside the old city already littered with the bodies of men and horses and heaps of flaming wreckage loosed from the catapults. This was before the first wave had even hit the city, when me and my men came riding from Windhelm. The Stormcloaks were waiting for something.

A shout from my second shook me out of my thoughts. "Sir!" That siege had raged for days, and weeks of skirmishes and slow maneuvering have brought me and my company here. "Faendal has returned."

As if called by her, the elf appeared out of the blizzard and rode up to me. "Report," I ordered briskly.

He gave a quick salute before informing me of the situation. The camp was no more than a thousand meters out, but Stormcloak forces seemed to be attempting an assault. Fighting had already broken out. I needed no more excuse.

I gripped my dadao with both palms, and my steed with both knees, sparing only a moment to command my second accordingly. I drove the great grey beast with my legs, and raised my body upright, gripping my curved saber as I witnessed the battle I closed in on. The Stormcloaks numbers were dwindling already, but the forces on either side were not brought together in any particular formation. The legionnaires were attempting to regroup, but the warriors in blue fought ferociously, the only constant was the slow crawl the mob made toward the camp. None of the other soldiers were mounted, and it was simple to maneuver a charge through the chaos.

I used my body and legs to guide my horse, swinging my blade with both arms as I crashed into the ranks, immediately sending a Stormcloak flying, crying out as he was badly bruised by my horse. I lopped off the head of one in blue and saved the life of one in red. He used this gift to kill the man my horse injured. I catch another Stormcloak across the chest, decimating his light armor and wounding him fatally. Arrows whiz past and I maneuver out of the reach of most of the fighting as Lydia and Belrand deliver their own charges. I glance towards the south and glimpse Faendal clearing a ridge of a few archers before grabbing his own bow. I steady my horse, whose eyes glare wonderingly at the Stormcloaks who break off from the chaos to challenge me. One of their spears took my horse, and I leapt ungracefully off the dying beast at them. The spearman fell first, and after quickly doing away with his brothers, I joined the fray. I was forced to send at least a half a dozen more Nords to their deaths before reaching a bedroll. The fighting had lasted at least an hour, and the snow had let up considerably by then, but it still fell, and the cold still pierced you like a fucking dagger.

We all suffered wounds up to this point, but in that last skirmish, Faendal received a bloody strike to his calf from a Stormcloak's axe. He is put up in the medic tent right now. I spoke briefly with the legate, but she refused to give me my orders till I put in a few hours rest. It has been a long time since I have had a full night's rest, and I suspect it will be a long time still. But I've taken the precautions towards ensuring a few hours. My belly is becoming full of mead, and I have kept my longpipe burning for near half an hour now. I feel necessary to account for the belongings in my backpack.

Two pints of clear liquid, clearly marked "Do Not Drink! Fools Juice!"

Three small bowls of Dwemer-make, the first with four grams or so of sun sugar inside, the second has more-or-less the same contents, and the third holds at least three grams of tar heroine

Several small bags filled with my personal stash of cannabis and tobacco

At least a dozen assorted wine-jugs and bottles of mead

A small wooden box, which is carved with two sections on the inside, one a much tighter row, filled with about half a dozen vials (whose contents I will not record), and the other section is overflowing with dried, prepared strains of wild mushrooms and assorted mountain flowers

Some assorted jewelry and valuable gems

That is everything in the knapsack. My pack holds two changes of clothes and another cloak. The pouches on my belt hold potions and poisons that both go towards furthering my own life. I keep an Akaviri katana on this belt, in the unlikely event someone separates me from my saber. These are all the possessions I have with me, not to mention more then enough coin to fuel my endeavors, more than any of these poor souls I see around me have seen in the entirety of their lives, I think. Unlimited credit for those with nimble hands.

Up until this point, I have been gradually building my high with the buds and the liquor, but now I think I will take some of the heroine. I will fill both my nostrils and I will find sleep soon. For now my hand grows tired of writing.


	2. Entry Two

Tirdas, 30th of Heartfall

Pale Imperial Encampment

Dawn

I opened my eyes to see the sun growing to the east. My head feels hollow, and my body is heavy. My fingers stumble through the process of rolling and lighting this morning's first cigarette. No more fighting happened last night, at least not here. Lydia came to me before long, and spoke to me of Faendal's condition. The axe that had harrowed the elf hours past had been coated with a mixture of animal venom. Amputation was necessary. He did not survive. I clumsily rolled two more cigarettes of tobacco leaf and gave one to my second. I shared some mead with her before reporting to the legate.

Legate Rikke informed me the location of two different inns where couriers for the other side have been reported to use on their routes. I am to attend there and intercept one of their couriers before he can make it to Dawnstar. After retrieving his documents and returning them to the camp for the necessary forgeries, I'm to take them the rest of the way to Dawnstar.

I return to the bedroll where I left my things, and before sitting down to pen this, I recounted my provisions. I withdrew two of the white caps, and another, a purplish one, I think they are called bleeding crowns. I consumed them, and opened a jug of wine. I have only a small stash of cocaine left, so I've filtered the rest into a thin vial and snorted it also. I required another cigarette before I began to write, and already am reaching for a bottle of mead to replace the wine. I take this time to consider the mercenary, and my soldiers. They would do fine here, were they to stay while I go to intercept the courier, but I believe the mercenary will not stand to be left in an Imperial military zone. I will bring her with me on my mission.

Satisfied that leaving what is left my troop here at the camp will keep them battle ready, and that I will not be gone long enough for them to suffer serious injury. So I find myself wondering about the mercenary I have employed. She acts mature, but she is five summers my junior, at least. No stranger to small kicks. Everyone drinks. Everyone smokes. How else can you stay brave against everything Skyrim could throw at you? How else could you stay calm out here? Opiates are somewhat familiar to her, I have gathered that. But she has never tasted this earthly sludge, or even imagined a thing like sun sugar could exist. Not a great many truly do, considering how it is retrieved. If you are not afraid, or very smart, you could find the followers of Boethiah in some mountains here in the wilds of this vast country. They know how to extract and prepare the substance, and will sell it to some. I once met an Argonian who made claim to be a former Shadowscale, and told me it was popular among the younger Argonian murderers. He, too, knew how to extract it, and shared it with me that day in Falkreath. Lydia had been in my employ long enough to become familiar with all these things, and more, although no stranger to the tar before our meeting. Jenassa was a different story. I believe I will give her some of the redcaps after we begin our journey, perhaps more later.

As if drawn by my thoughts of her, the dark elf approaches me, a fag smelling of good herbs held in her lips. Her custom is to always be in her leather and her hides, and the cold would be excuse enough, if there wasn't already a war on, as if she wasn't in the employ of some dangerous Imperial agent. It was also her custom, as a sellsword, to be prepared to move at a moment's notice. I think I will stop writing now, and find a new horse to take me to this Nightgate Inn.


	3. Entry Three

Same day, nearly the next

About midnight

I overestimated Jenassa. Her reaction to the fly amanita simply came on slow. The Altmer had never experienced the Fear before this day, not in the full-fledged way it came upon you when you had Kynareth's poison both clearing and clouding your mind at once. How long since our last fight? Not, long, I realized, drawing away from my perch in a tree to realize I was standing in a grove somewhere in the mountains, Nordic ruins and dead bodies nearby, as well as a large pile of goo or ash that glowed unnaturally. The sight sparked memories. Blood splattered onto old walls. Lightning leapt from a small man's hand and fire leapt from the Altmer's own. A woman decapitated during the rush of blood, by my own sword. My eyes became wet, and all the sun sugar and heroine I had swallowed and filled my nostrils with up until now began to wear, and I realized the poison was still gripping my mind. I hazily remember my last minutes in that inn, feeding the red mushrooms to my mercenary, swallowing more of the twisted purplish ones and a bit of the amanita myself, washing it all down with Riften mead and Alto wine. Was she not ready for this? I am not prepared to deal with this.

"Bandits," I said or thought or both, trying to calm myself, a fear of Fear growing in me. I stumbled towards an arch, a platform, and an altar. Towards the body of a Khajit and the unnatural residue, which I recognized as all that was left of the pale ghost I slayed. Impossibles. How to kill that which is already dead? But here laid its body, or what suffered for it. The Khajit, idiot ,dead by my hand too. Greed drove him, and that pale lady. I had replaced her sword, though.

Headrush. Everything got white, my temples throbbed, and things began melting around me about my peripheals. Strange things going on, all around. I heard Jenassa whispering, over and over, though I could not locate her. It was moments of gripping myself and the ground before I could stand up, before I realized I was remembering her paranoid musings as we skulked through the ruins, biting out at any of the greedy souls that we encountered. The spirits here did not appreciate our presence. But did we not set things right?

I cannot find Jenassa. I do not know what fate she suffered, I cannot recall her presence here in this grove. Sleep calls, and I sit now under the tree where I awoke back into this consciousness of mind, of knowing. I fill my longpipe and search the trees for the dark girl. The herb burns slowly and smoke fills my vision, and I glance a river nearby, more ruins beyond it. A curved, huge slab of stone, raised on a platform above him, some distance away. Trees around and close by. Wisdom there. Wisdom I am not ready for. But I will prepare as best I can.

My thoughts dwelled on a purpose, but the presence of the ruins and memories of death clouded my judgment. I had completed the first part of my mission, of that I was sure. But what I was doing in this grove, why we dwelled into this crypt… I remember bandits, fighting one another. They were all after one in particular, and she ran past me and my sellsword, leaving us to deal with the bruised men she left behind. They were easy. Jenassa reveled in the death, coming to some control on the poison that gripped her mind. So I shared the sun sugar with her. We brought death to everything in this crypt. Even the dead. I would find her soon, but first, I must learn the Word. I had filled my supply of heroine at the inn. I will make the necessary preparations.


End file.
